An Easy Touch Pt4— a Naked story.

You will want to have read the earlier parts of Easy Touch before reading this.

I was trembling and stunned still, from the casual forcefulness of His treatment of me as He had come, first in my mouth, then pulling out and spurting onto my face, grunting His pleasure, the sticky come on my face burning me with shame, bringing fresh tears, soft and sad, but with a strong undercurrent of stupid pride, too, as I could sense His satisfaction, His relaxation after His orgasm.

Even if His hand was now firmer with my head, forcing me rather than letting me force myself take Him deep as I ‘cleaned’ His cock, I knew that it was not dissatisfaction that was driving Him, but enjoyment of me, and I gave myself all over again, no matter that my whole body was weak, rubbery, wobbly with the enormity, the overwhelm of everything since His first shocking statement; so few minutes by the clock, but a lifetime away now, from my former existence, and I almost giggled at Him, half hysterical when, pulling away, His hand in my hair turning my face up to His, He announced;

“Enough, pretty— I need to go. We have house-guests. You’ll clean up, perfectly, of course— no stains or mess, eh? Re-set the office for tomorrow, and come in earlier than usual— for 6:30; you’ll be naked and ready for me to use you when I arrive— I’ll have about twenty minutes and I plan to use you hard, leave you in a terrible state. But before I go there’s the little matter of you signing your life away.”

I was at the same time drowned in embarrassment at my nakedness, my revealed sluttishness, and overflowing with weak pleasure at having let Him do as He pleased with me, at having survived it; most of all, at having somehow managed to please Him, seeing His eyes go to my breasts, breasts that He had promised to whip often, the whole thing overwhelming, so that I had been crying even as I giggled and squirmed for Him, down on my knees, naked, destroyed, while He, as soon as His trousers were zipped, looked every inch the respectable man of business, law and letters that the world knew Him as. The contrast was extreme, and demolished me as He abandoned me, setting out His requirements so bluntly, as they hit me like a sack of wet sand, left me breathless, stunned at the casualness with which He could say such awful things to me.

But there was to be no respite; He had set the lift in motion, and we were soon at the first floor, the lift door grinding back, opening directly into the law office lobby. I was naked and sticky and wrecked, both emotionally and physically, and I cringed at even being in those rooms, being visible from those rooms in that condition. Reality hit me, and hit me hard; all the sober, sensible respectability of the practice of law, for which I had worked, studied so very hard, over years, making my new condition the more obviously degraded.

He noticed of course, saw me cowering, still on my knees, but made no attempt to help me through, to encourage me, but rather laughed at me, easily, enjoying my shame, my desperation, as He had every right to, having told me exactly what He planned to do, and had my pathetic, weak compliance delivered up to Him by my own desire, my own weakness;

“Welcome to your new normal, pretty slut. You’ll never feel easy again; being in the world you’ve been so forcibly wrenched from, that you have let be taken from you, in service of the hole in your belly, its unquenchable need, will always be hard; such as you are unacceptable, impossible to countenance in normal life— you will know, deep in you, that you will mostly be met with disgust, disdain, with calumny and scorn; either that or brute abuse. A sex-toy is incompatible with what passes for decent normality, and you know it.”

He left me there a moment longer while He went through to His desk, returning with two thick binders, the paper crisp and official, the kind of paper I had once handled with pride in seminar rooms and court internships. He dropped them on the floor in front of me.

“Sign,” He said, mild, almost kind. “Your new contract. And the supplementary agreement, including a cast-iron NDA of course.”

My hand moved toward the first page without thought, the trained reflex of a lawyer; the need to read, to check the clauses, the consideration, the termination rights, all the things that had been drilled into me as the difference between a free person and a fool. He saw the movement and laughed again, low and genuine, the sound of a man who had already won and was casually confident in His continued victory.

“You’re signing your life away, pretty; why bother yourself with the detail? The terms are unfair— of course they are! Deliberately so. The pay is extremely generous, paid straight into a Swiss bank, and the severance is the same six months as before, but every other protection you were taught to demand is gone. You have none, and that’s the point. Sign them, little cunt, and cease to have any rights.”

I signed. Both documents. My name looked strange on the paper, small and neat— someone else’s meaning, now. When I was finished He simply looked down at me once more, nodded as if He’d checked something off His ’to-do’ list, and walked out through the main office door without another word, leaving me naked, sticky, destroyed, on my knees, thighs spread obscenely wide, in the middle of His law office at an hour when no one should have been there.

It took me the longest time to move; the second the door’s closing sound had faded, whatever meaning I had ever had was gone, flash burnt out of me, and all the meaning I could imagine ever having, then, had just abandoned me, an empty thing on the floor; a toy left behind by its owner.

But eventually there was nothing other than what He had told me, nothing else which had any purchase, and so I began to clean.

The boiling internal storm of contradictions and impossible realities rose and fell in waves while my hands, on auto-pilot, did the work of clearing up. The lift first: every surface inside wiped until the rusty steel and the stained wooden panelling showed nothing, held no scent that could speak of what had happened there, the ropes tidied away. The lobby next, the respectable public face of the firm, every chair straightened, every surface checked with obsessive care. A little in the office itself, enough to leave it as if no one had been there after hours. I was paranoid in case any tiny clue as to my shame was missed; the idea of Ms Coldstone or some early law clerk finding even a single drop or a displaced paperclip that might somehow telegraph the truth of what I now was made my stomach clench harder than the residual ache between my legs.

He was right about the fear of scorn. An enormous wall had appeared between me and anyone but Him. There was no-one, no-one in this world who could know what had gone between us, what I had done. Oh, if it was known He would be destroyed, but at the same time, He would be no more than a strong man taking what He wanted— a story with as many supporters as detractors; Clinton, after all, had done a dreadful thing in public office and survived in public office, even. But there were no supporters of weak whore sluts. None. Not even me.

He had me, and that was a trap; of course it was, but it bound us together, too. Only I would lose it if I did not let Him do terrible things to me. I knew; I knew it was a despicable crime, what He had done to me. But I could not wish He had not done it. I hugged the knowledge that He had chosen me to do it to close to my chest, like a talisman. Something. Something to hold on to that was true— I had the marks on my breasts, on my pussy mound, on my buttocks, the hurt in my throat, the puffiness of my sex lips to prove it. He had raped me, and whipped me, and I was His. He wanted me; wanted to fuck me and hurt me and I had found that I could not help but respond to being treated that way, however much it had appalled me, shocked me, hurt me and ruined me, it had also exalted me, enraptured me, utterly and completely consumed me, permanently altered me, remade me.

He’d altered me, and that meant He wanted me— at least for the moment; He was right, I was never going to be able to think beyond that ‘for the moment’, never going to be secure, never going to be safe, nover going to be able to take Him for granted, not ever.

When the lower floors were perfect I took the lift back up, still naked, and returned to the penthouse study where He would have me, naked, and abuse me, now, at will. For I had signed; no matter that He and I knew it was not a contract which would ever be entered into a court, it was the ritual of signing which meant something to me, and to Him.

I was His now, His to use. And the fact of signing made it possible for me to let go of any notion of fighting. I had signed.

No matter that He had not asked me to, I cleaned there, obsessively, as if our space must be perfect for Him. I worked methodically, the way I had once prepared briefs. Every surface had to be perfect. The fear of leaving even a faint smear was sharper than the shame of my nakedness. That fear belonged to the new reality He had simply declared; the shame belonged to the old one. They occupied the same body without reconciling.

I was naked.

The physical fact of my nakedness did not stay in the background while I cleaned, but then, when there was nothing left to clean, while I sorted the research files and prepared the notes for the next chapter of the novel, it asserted itself with every movement. My breasts hung free, heavier than I was used to feeling them, shifting with the reach of my arms, the slight swing of my torso as I wiped the far side of the desk or reached for a folder on the high shelf. The air of the study, cool and impersonal, moved between my legs whenever I stepped or turned; it touched me in places that clothing had always kept private, and each small current felt like a reminder that there was no longer any barrier between my body and the room. Once or twice I caught my reflection in the dark glass of a cabinet door or the polished side of the photocopier or the wide river-view windows now black with night: a naked woman on her knees or bent at the waist, hair disordered, the drying traces of Him still faintly visible on her skin. The image was merciless. It did not look like the competent professional I had trained myself to be. It looked like a degraded whore.

The dissonance cut deeper with every glance. Part of me still flinched from the sight, the old conditioning rising in a tight, familiar wave— this is indecent, this is what you were taught to hide, a woman does not present herself like this, least of all in the place where she is meant to be taken seriously. Yet another part, quieter and more treacherous, watched the same reflection and began, almost against my will, to assess it. If He returned and found me still here, still naked, still marked by what He had done, then the way I held myself would matter. The posture I had spent years refining for tailored jackets and modest skirts— shoulders slightly forward, movements economical, nothing that invited the eye to linger— no longer served. Naked, those same habits made me look merely exposed, even apologetic. To be found sexually worth the taking, I realised with a slow, sickened clarity, would require something else: an openness in the shoulders, a different carriage of the hips, an awareness of how my breasts moved and how the line of my back presented itself. The knowledge felt like a further imposition. I was not simply obediently naked; I was already beginning to learn the demands of nakedness, adjusting, in small but urgently needful ways, the angle of my spine or the placement of my knees so that the body He had used would not look like it was trying to disappear. The old self recorded each adjustment as a betrayal. The newer, rawer awareness knew that the alternative— remaining rigid, defensive, visibly clinging to modesty— would be a failure in His eyes. Neither part of me could rest.

When the study was perfect, when there was nothing left that could betray me, I could not go home. I fell to my knees again in the middle of the open floor, still naked, overwhelmed. The old self tried to surface— self-respect, the memory of lectures on consent and dignity, the girl from Mountain Home who had once believed sex should mean love— and was beaten back by the sheer weight of what had already been done and accepted. Shame and fear and the raw physical memory of the crop and His thickness and the way He had used my throat all collided and left me shaking, silent, eyes open and unseeing.

And yet through it all there was a mounting joy— real joy— that after the weeks of hopelessly crushing on Him I had him; or rather, He had taken me. It did not matter how— except that it did; this, what He had done to me, was so much better than anything I could have imagined, because what could I, an immature nothing, give Him except for sex? To have pretended it was more would have been a lie and He is above lying.

Surrender. Surrender is wonderful. Surrender is salvation. Surrender is resolution of all doubt. I must surrender, as hard as I can make myself.

The desperate, seductive, appalling thought repeated until it became the only steady thing in the storm, a single clear note that the rest of me could organise around.

At the first light of dawn I realised I must clean myself properly. I dressed in the clothes I had worn the day before— everything wrong now, everything suddenly too modest, too concealing, too much like the girl who no longer existed— and walked the short distance through the dim streets to the tiny flat Ms Coldstone had arranged, feeling utterly unreal, the strange hour, the hard to believe depth of the silence all compounding my dissociation from everything I had ever known, the depth of my loss, the extent of my loneliness in this new world, where only He could be my companion; a companion who promised nothing but more shame, more separation from the old world.

In the bathroom mirror the welts were still dark, the nipples marked, my poor pussy swollen and tender. I washed carefully, then stood in front of the open wardrobe and understood that none of the clothes made sense any more. Everything would have to be more overtly sexual, more obviously inviting of His hands, His attention, His cock, His whip too. The skirts too long, the blouses not low-cut enough, not gauzy enough, the bras and panties that would cover what He had already claimed— none of it belonged to the creature who would be waiting for Him at half past six.

I returned to the penthouse earlier even than He had asked. Naked again the moment the door locked behind me (He kept the upper floor locked, locked me in, too) I set myself to the only work I knew— His work— sorting the research files He had left, preparing the notes for the next chapter of the novel, anything that kept my hands busy and my mind from spinning completely apart. The prescribed pose returned in small automatic adjustments whenever I stood or moved: shoulders back, hips slightly forward, the offer always present even while I typed. I was wanting to learn now, the ways of nakedness, as a need; He must— He must, always— be given every opportunity to want to fuck me. Fuck me or hurt me. It had to be accepted. I would rather He took enjoyment of me by making my cry, by marking my flesh with His cruelty, than be ignored, be uninteresting. It was not easy to live with, but I stared it in the face, even as it made me tremble.

I was leaning over His desk in the large study when the lift doors opened and Ms Coldstone walked in.

I collapsed, cowering, cringing on the floor, arms trying uselessly to cover breasts and pussy at once, the entire new self that had been building through the night shattering under the simple reality of another woman’s eyes on what I had become.

Ms Coldstone stood just inside the lift doors, neat and hard-faced in her usual dark suit, and looked down at me without surprise or sympathy. Then she laughed— a short, dry sound that had nothing of amusement in it and everything of confirmation, of superior judgement.

“You didn’t imagine He was going to manage you in detail, did you? That’s my job.”

“He is only interested in entertaining himself. You deliver the entertainment; I deliver you. As far as you are concerned, I speak with His voice. You will find that I am much more thorough in my expectations of perfection and obedience than He. I am not here to help you, but to ensure you can please Him to the maximum of whatever capacity you have. He seems to have high hopes of you. We shall see.”

“For a start, you are not permitted modesty, and cringing makes you even more pathetic than you already are. It won’t serve you either— a cringing slut is just asking to be beaten, and beaten harshly. Think about it: would you rather be whipped or raped?”

Her words landed like successive blows, hammer blows to what was left of my self-respect, my hope, my last shreds of belief in myself. But she was right, some part of me knew,importantly right, and I tried. I really tried.

My arms came away from my body, I came up on my knees, even as they shuffled wider. My shoulders went back the way He had shown me, my head lifted so that my eyes could meet hers even though the effort made my stomach turn, and I had to look down at her feet almost immediately. The pose felt absurd and exposed under her cold assessment, and I could feel how badly I was failing at it— the tremble in my thighs, the way my hands kept wanting to return to cover, the flush that burned hotter with every second she watched, as she came closer, her heavy heels clacking on the floorboards.

Having the prim, well-dressed, grim-visaged woman so close to me, knowing I was both trying my shameful hardest, and at the same time failing pathetically at presenting myself as sexually interesting, was impossible, and I wilted. Every instinct that still belonged to the girl who had studied law and lived in fear of scorn screamed that this was unbearable, degrading beyond recovery, and yet the newer knowledge— that failure here would only make whatever came next worse— forced the attempt onward.

She laughed again, shorter this time.

“You’ll learn the hard way, then. Quickly now, He’ll be here soon. Up with you!”

She produced a waist-trainer corset, tight and— shocking me— immediately an object of desire, devastatingly pretty, matt cream linen with lace edging that would have looked elegant on a woman who had chosen it for herself. She fitted it around me while I stood, still trying to hold the pose, and began to tighten the stays. At first it was only pressure. Then it was constriction. Then it was crushing. I could not keep silent.

“It’s hurting me! Inside! Hurting me inside!”

My hands wanted to protect me, but I did not dare impede her, and so they simply flippered, useless, shaming me as tears threatened, and I had to bite my lip to ward of hysterics.

“So it will hurt, pretty, so it will,” she said, cinching another fraction, “and with the night-time trainer too, you’ll be corseted continually from now on until your internal organs have learned their new place, after which you may be permitted to sleep free on occasion.”

The next item was an ugly black collar, thick and functional, with a large rigid lump at the side. She fastened it around my throat with the same brisk efficiency she might have used to buckle a suitcase.

“Your master will just treat you how He likes, and you’ll end up like a helpless puppy for Him— they all do— scrambling to please Him, however shaming. But I’m more orderly. I use reward and punishment. You haven’t earned a reward yet— maybe you never will— but you need to understand punishment. Oh, don’t look for a whip. That’s His idea of entertainment. He does like to see a girl with stripes in her tender places, like you have now, not that I disagree with Him. But punishment is colder, more measured, more crushing.”

She held up a small remote-control-like device, simple dial set to 1, a red button beneath it. She pressed the button.

The shock threw me to the floor. It was not a sting. It was a sudden, violent seizure of the muscles in my neck and throat, as if the collar itself had caught fire and was burning inward. I squealed, high and involuntary, both hands clawing at the hard lump, convinced for several endless seconds that I was being burned for real, that I must already be scarred for life, so awful was the sensation. When the current stopped I was on my side, gasping, tears running freely, the pretty corset still locked around my crushed middle, hands at my neck, tearing at the thing, which was not even warm.

She explained, calm and precise, that the setting went up to 20, that in time I would grow used to it at one and would need a higher setting to feel the same correction. Further, when the battery ran low I would receive milder shocks as a warning; those would grow stronger and more insistent until I charged it.

“Come,” she said, and I followed her, unsteady on bare feet, fighting back tears, utterly at sea, assailed by desperate, terrible thoughts, clinging only to Him as some sort of certainty. That He wanted me. That this was part of what He wanted, appalling as it was, that it must somehow be endured. For Him.

In the lobby which led to the toilet was a small screen, barely waist-high; it had always been there, perfectly innocent, taken for granted, but she showed me that there was a narrow space behind it, at the bottom of which was plugged a charger with a little red light and a lead so short it barely reached eight inches up from the floor. She made me bend double over the screen, hands gripping the far side, plug the lead into the collar, then told me to spread my legs. The position left me completely open, the cool air of the public space moving against the still-tender places between my thighs, the welts from the night before on full display. She left me like that long enough for the humiliation to settle properly, asked me if I understood, accepted my barely managed “M-Hm” with a tut, and told me to get myself back to the main room.

When I could make myself open the door— somehow, despite what had just passed between us, opening the door on my nakedness and voluntarily walking in to her took every ounce of desperate willpower I could muster; I was determined not to cry in front of her again (vain determination; she has me in tears almost every day, sobbing and begging; I am weak and she is strong and cruel and I can never please her for more than a short period before she finds something wrong with me; and she is right, though I try, try so very hard, and have improved and improved— He says so, it must be true— but I know that I am always failing still; I find myself dreaming of making her smile, of earning rewards from her, more than I dream of Him, now. Her and Knarik; they are taking me over, so much more subtle than He, though I love Him more than ever, it is the two of them, His witches, who really have me now, who will do with me as they will, now that He has his sights set on the redhead).

When I could make myself open the door, she was holding a pair of very high-heeled mules, cream linen with lace, matching the corset, with thin gold chain ankle straps that were not tight— loose enough that they gave no real support for walking, yet snug enough that they would take time to remove— a tiny catch, almost invisible in the chain. She knelt and fitted them onto my feet with the same impersonal efficiency she had used for the corset and the collar. When I stood, the heels forced my posture into something closer to the prescribed pose than my own efforts had managed; the loose straps made every step feel precarious and deliberate. If I tried to shake the shoes off, I felt I would likely break my ankle. I was condemned to move slowly, with many small, careful steps. My breath caught; there was something lovely about it, I suddenly knew; lovely and terrible.

“Outside work hours, you’ll be naked like this for Him, then in the closet you’ll find some little blouses and skirts for working hours. There will be more later, girl, but that’s all we have time for now.”

She left me standing in the middle of the study, corseted and collared and balanced on the high mules, the remote presumably still in her pocket, and disappeared back into the lift.

I stayed where I was for a long minute, the heels making even stillness an effort of small adjustments, then forced myself down my knees because I did not know what else to do. The corset made breathing shallow and careful. The collar sat heavy and ugly against my skin. The residual ghost of the shock still twitched in the muscles of my throat. The loose straps of the mules shifted against my ankles as I settled, making me wonder how I would ever manage to stand. Outside the wide windows the river was beginning to catch the early light, and somewhere below, in the respectable world, people would soon be arriving for ordinary work. Up here I was waiting for Him, naked under the new constraints, finding it imperative to spread my thighs a little wider, just in case, the sex parts of my body; ass, pussy, breasts— marked by an actual whip, and already learning that there was now a second hand on the levers of my existence— colder, more methodical, and entirely uninterested in whether any part of me survived the process intact.

The old self tried to catalogue the new facts and could not finish the list. A woman who spoke with His voice. Continual corseting until my organs learned their place. An electric collar that would punish me for running low on battery by forcing me, bent and open, for long, long minutes. Shoes I could not easily walk in, let alone run, nor easily remove. The explicit choice, offered as casual advice, between being whipped and being raped. None of it fitted inside the frameworks which had formed my life— consent, dignity, the idea that a professional relationship had edges. The frameworks themselves felt alien now, artificial, yet with such power; power which was now set against me.

What remained was simpler and more frightening. He would arrive soon. He had said He would use me hard and leave me in a terrible state. Ms Coldstone had made it plain that her job was to ensure I could deliver that use to the maximum of whatever capacity I possessed. The capacity itself no longer felt like something I controlled. It felt like something that would be measured, corrected, and expanded whether I liked it or not, by two different kinds of attention, both of them absolute. The joy I had found in the night— the strange, mounting relief of surrender— was still there, but it sat beside a newer, colder understanding: surrender was no longer only something I could choose in the soft dark of the night, of my own volition. It was becoming the permanent condition of the rooms I worked in, the clothes I would not wear, the body I would present, and the silence I would keep while other people looked at me and saw exactly what I had become.

The complexity of it was not a single wound but a set of overlapping cuts that refused to line up.

Ms Coldstone’s presence had been infinitely harder to bear than His. With Him the violence, even the cruelty had carried the charge of His lust for me, an glorious answer to the crush I had nursed for months— the stupid, weak love that had made every late-night plotting session feel like a private gift. Even the announcement, even the crop, even the way He had used my throat had arrived wrapped in the fact that it was Him doing it. Ms Coldstone stripped that residue away. She did not want me. She wanted an instrument that would not fail when He reached for it. The distinction was enormous and absolute. Under her eyes my body was not so much an offering to someone I desired; it was a performance whose only audience was the knowledge that I was already failing. The shame that rose then was not the hot, sexual shame of being seen by Him; it was the older, colder shame of being judged inadequate by a woman who looked exactly like the kind of professional I had once hoped to become.

The corset could not be ignored. Every breath had to be negotiated. The pressure did not simply hurt; it reorganised my body so that the ordinary act of staying upright required a constant, low-grade surrender of space inside me. I could feel my ribs and the soft organs beneath them being asked to accept a new order, and the knowledge that this would be maintained until those organs “learned their place” turned the future into something of continual pressure, continual experience of constraint, of control, of hurt. The collar added a second, sharper edge to that. The memory of the shock was still live in the muscles of my throat. There had been nothing of entertainment in it at all, still less desire. It had been administrative, cold, mechanical. His crop had at least belonged to the same night in which I had been made to orgasm by His cock; the collar belonged to a system that would continue whether I came or not.

When I heard His steps the two registers collided and refused to cancel. The automatic lift of pleasure was real— months of conditioning had trained my body to answer that particular sound with relief and readiness— and so was the fresh wetness that answered it. But the wetness arrived already tinged by Ms Coldstone’s earlier question; Would you rather be whipped or raped? My body did not answer in language, but by opening itself, yearning. The shame of that opening was not self-disgust; it was the recognition that the question had already been decided somewhere beneath the level at which I could still argue with myself. The old self recorded the decision as a defeat. The newer awareness noted only that the pose was now easier to hold, that the ankle straps and the crushed waist and the heavy collar had become, for the moment, sacraments that I believed must enhance my body in His eyes, rather than simply cruel constraints.

What I could not stop circling around, wanted indeed to lose myself in, mounting as He got closer, was the small, persistent joy. It did not argue with anything, but simply continued to exist, untouched by shame, by pain, by fear— the same joy that had once flared when He stepped into the study and the long afternoon of work suddenly contained Him, only now so much more brightly coloured, mulit-faceted, encompassing everything He had done to me; hard words, cruel promises, shame and pain, as well as breathtaking sexual excess and overpowering masculine invasion. That the joy could still live, even now, while I knelt, posing grotesquely, naked, corseted and collared and already wet for whatever He intended, felt like the deepest betrayal of the girl I had been and, at the same time, the only thing worth living for, no matter the crushing price.

The tears were gathering before I could stop them. I felt them rising hot behind my eyes, the control I had been clinging to since Ms Coldstone left beginning to slip; my breathing went shallow and uneven in the corset, my hands clenched uselessly at my sides, and the whole of the night and the morning pressed in at once until I could not hold the edges of it. Then I heard His swift, heavy steps on the top landing. Every visit of His to my upstairs solitude had been welcome, even on the days He had been hurried and had hardly spoken to me; I had still been with Him, close to Him. The litany He had taught me only last night rose unbidden and played through my mind as I forced myself into the pose: … hands behind you a little, out from your sides, limp, palms backwards; feet shoulder width apart, head upright, eyes on my groin, lips parted, tongue tip visible, shoulders back, hips thrust forwards …